


The Three Hat Problem

by makokitten



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Bunny!lock, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-22
Updated: 2013-08-22
Packaged: 2017-12-24 07:06:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/936853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makokitten/pseuds/makokitten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is always wearing one of three top hats, and John Watson can't figure out what he's hiding under there.  Can't be anything too bad, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Three Hat Problem

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stitchy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchy/gifts).



> (who requested this forever ago). Beta'd by [Seth](archiveofourown.org/users/h3rring).

* * *

            Sherlock Holmes favors tall top hats.  In fact, John Watson thinks that he’s never seen Sherlock without one since moving in to 221B Baker Street, not even when Sherlock lounges around in their sitting room wearing his dressing gown, as is his habit.  Even in his workshop down below their landlady’s flat, where he tinkers and toils building his miniature steam engines—even when he overheats to the point where his hair sticks to his forehead, he doesn’t remove his bloody top hat.

            He has three, as far as John can tell: one black, one grey, and a purple one that he wears on special occasions.  And it’s only after they are familiar enough to address each other by first names, only after they’ve solved an exhilarating case or two together, that John asks, “You really like those hats of yours, don’t you?”

            Sherlock wipes his forehead, looks up from his latest contraption, and asks, “Problem?”

            “Well, as the last girl I courted reminded me, top hats went out of fashion a year or two ago.”  John smiles cheekily, but he’s actually watching Sherlock closely for a reaction.  “Derby hats are in now.”

            “And I’ve always been so concerned with public opinion,” Sherlock retorts.

            “Not exactly, no,” John admits, although privately he recalls Sherlock’s penchant for grooming, and perfectly tailored suits.

            “Derby hat’s not tall enough.”  Sherlock’s tone is very sharp, and his eyes are on his work.  “I need extra height.”

            “Oh, because you can’t get by without being the tallest bloke in the room.  I see.” 

            Sherlock scowls, but says nothing.

* * *

            From that day on, John makes it his personal mission to catch Sherlock without one of his precious top hats to see what he’s hiding.  It isn’t as simple as it sounds.  Sherlock’s sleeping and bathing hours are erratic at best, and John knows better than to invade Sherlock’s room for fear of being attacked by one of his most recent mechanical experiments.  Even when they’re dashing across London at night in pursuit of a criminal, dodging cabs pulled by mechanical horses, Sherlock keeps a firm grip on whichever hat he is wearing that day, generally the grey or the black.  Even when they are summoned to formal events, as they occasionally are, Sherlock barely tips his purple hat to ladies.

            Then there comes a time when, with each daily failure, John abandons his quest just that much more.  He gives up on trying to see what Sherlock looks like without his hat, accepting it as simply one more oddity of living with the most impressive, most curious man in London.  It’s probably something as mundane as a simple bald spot, he supposes, because Sherlock would be too proud to admit that he’s losing his hair.  John accepts this solution, and forgets about the whole thing entirely.

* * *

            “You’ve stopped wondering about my hats,” Sherlock remarks one day, nine months after they started living together, while he scans the morning paper for interesting news.

            “Hm?”

            “My hats,” Sherlock says.  This particular morning, he is wearing a blue and green-checkered dressing gown and a black top hat.  John can’t remember a time when he thought that strange.  “You’ve stopped wondering.”

            “You read minds now?” John asks, chuckling.

            “When I’d first appear in the mornings, your eyes would travel to my hat before anything else,” is the reply.  “Now they’re reserved for my face alone.”

            John shrugs, reaching forward to butter a scone.  “It’s no business of mine.  Frankly, you’ve many bad habits.  Wearing something on your head all the time is the least of your problems.”

            “Hm,” says Sherlock, who sounds oddly pleased.  “Then perhaps I should…”

            “Should what?”

            But the words are barely out of his mouth when Sherlock reaches up, hesitates, and then, with a flourish, plucks the hat from his head.  John stares at where it once rested, and, slowly, his jaw drops.  Then, under the intense scrutiny of Sherlock’s blue-green stare, he collects himself, furrows his brow, and says, “Are those—”

            “Rabbit ears,” Sherlock volunteers.  “Yes.”

            John opens his mouth, closes it again, licks his lips, clears his throat, and then says, “You don’t seem, um, all that perturbed.” 

            “I’ve lived with them for years,” says Sherlock, waving his hand dismissively.  The two tall, grey ears twitch on top of his head.  “One of my earliest experiments—an agility enhancement that didn’t work as intended.  For the formula, I used rabbits that lived on our estate.”

            “You used _rabbits_?”

            “Rabbit hairs, yes.”

            “Well.”  John can’t seem to think of anything intelligent to say, but he doesn’t feel prepared to let that go.  “Why not a cheetah or something?”

            Sherlock’s mouth twitches.  “Cheetah fur is harder to come by.  You shouldn’t underestimate the rabbit’s agility.  Besides, my hearing is fantastic.”

            John laughs at that.  He puts both of his hands on the table and he laughs and laughs and laughs.  Once Sherlock figures out that the laughter isn’t malicious, he chuckles, too, and sits back in his chair and laughs, watching John laughing, and John keeps laughing until tears sting his eyes and he’s gasping for breath.

            Once he’s regained his composure, he asks, “So they really are attached to your head?”

            “I can’t remove them painlessly, if that’s what you mean.”

            “No, but you can feel them and—may I touch them?”

            “Yes,” Sherlock says after a moment, cautiously.  “But be careful, they’re very sensi—ah,” he gasps, closing his eyes, when John gently reaches out with his fingers to stroke the soft, grey fur at the base of them.  It feels like petting a real rabbit, but how bizarre to remember that there’s a man attached.  “As you appear to have discovered,” Sherlock manages, as John runs his hand up to the tip of one ear and back down, utterly enraptured.

            After what seems like a very long time, John takes his hand off of Sherlock’s impossible ear and just looks at him, slightly bewildered still, mostly amazed.  “You don’t have a little cotton tail to match, do you?” he teases.

            To John’s surprise, Sherlock turns a slightly alarming shade of pink.  “You don’t want to see that,” he says, trying to play it off as a joke.

            John looks at Sherlock, who’s still blushing to the roots of his curly hair, whose impossible ears are standing straight up, and feels a bit strange himself.  He reaches for his teacup, and, feeling that this is already a day when anything could happen, mutters, “I just might,” before taking a very long sip.

            Across the table from him, Sherlock’s ears twitch.


End file.
